On the Eve of Her Wedding…
by Tessaray
Summary: An explicit one-shot from Elizabeth's POV, written before Franco's abuse storyline wrapped up... so it's missing that one, very important revelation, which would certainly have changed the tone. Anyway, hope you enjoy!


**A Friz One-shot by Tessaray**

* * *

 **On the Eve of Her Wedding…**

Elizabeth unlocks the door of Franco's studio and lets herself in. It's just after eleven, the boys are asleep at home, her grandmother is staying over in the guest room — she'd insisted on running interference on what promises to be a chaotic morning, said she didn't want Elizabeth chasing after kids or making breakfast or doing anything but relaxing and getting ready…

And that's the thing — the thought of getting ready for her wedding.

Alone.

She feels Franco before she sees him and when she sees him, he takes her breath away... with joy... with appreciation. He's sitting across the room in that ugly yellow spray-painted chair, no lights on, but the moon is spilling through the wall of windows, bathing him in silver. And only when he speaks is she sure he's not some otherworldly thing…

"Hey," he says, with soft surprise.

"Hey." She's standing motionless in the doorway, not sure whether to stay or go…

"What are you doing here," they say in unison, and laugh. He gestures for her to come in.

"I thought you were staying at Scott's," she says, closing the door behind her.

"Yeah." He leans down and scoops up scattered drawings from the floor at his feet, lays them on the table next to him. "Well… there's this thing I've been working on…"

She moves closer, but doesn't take off her coat in case he might still prefer to be alone…

"Is it the portrait?" she says.

His eyes fly wide and he drops back into the chair, crestfallen. "They _told_ you?"

"Don't blame the boys," she laughs. "They were all giggly and secretive… it didn't take much to get it out of them. I absolutely love the idea, Franco. I don't know how you managed to get the three of them to sit still together."

"I couldn't. I had to sketch them all separately and then—," he breaks off with a raised brow and sharp shake of his head. "Oh... you're good. Uh-uh. No more about that. You'll see it soon enough... my wedding gift to you."

"Tomorrow," she says softly.

"Yeah… tomorrow." His eyes sparkle with adoration. "I'm so glad you're here, Elizabeth. I haven't had a chance to tell you today how much I love you… you know, with all that happened…," he trails off...

She sees that his eyes have lost focus and she moves closer, shrugs off her coat and lays it on the counter. "I love you, too," she says. "But maybe we should have postponed…,"

"Hell no. Not again. I want everything to go just like we planned it this time."

She looks into his face, but it's strangely unreadable. "Are you really okay?" she says.

"Yeah… it's all good, right? Happy ending." He looks out the window, face washed in silver, and blows out a long slow breath. "I've just… I've been sitting here in the dark thinking about brothers. No surprise. The portrait of the boys has been really hard, Elizabeth. I abandoned it so many times… but today changed everything, you know?" He reaches out to her and she slips her hand into his. "I've always thought of myself as damaged goods, especially lately. I was told so many lies… and now, to find out that I was a good kid, I was a sweet kid…," his voice catches on a small sob. "That I loved my brother and just wanted everybody to be safe and happy. I don't even know how to begin thinking of myself like that. How do I come to grips with that? Later, yeah, I turned into damaged goods for sure… but I didn't start out that way…"

She slips to her knees in front of him. "No, you didn't. And you won't end up that way, either. Not if I can help it." She gives his hand a hard squeeze, caught in a flare of mixed emotions. "But you should have _talked_ to me."

He looks down at her and swallows hard, eyes filling with tears. "I know."

"Clearly you don't know," she says. "All these months, you've been suffering in silence, when I could have helped you, listened and supported you. That's what I'm here for, Franco. Did you think you would lose me?"

His face seems on the verge of collapse, breath coming fast.

"Have I lost you?" he says urgently. "Is that why you're here? To call it off?"

She rocks back, stunned, and pulls her hand away. "Of _course_ not! Didn't I just tell you I love you? _Franco_ —"

"—Then _why…,"_ he stops, seems to realize he's close to panic, and softens _._ "Why are you here, Elizabeth?"

"I don't think I want to tell you now." She's sulking, doesn't care.

He reaches out to touch her face, but when she leans away, he pulls a heavy sigh and drops his hand. "You're right… about everything. You usually are," he says gently. "But can we please not do this now? I finally feel okay. It's fucking amazing to feel okay. And what I really want," he leans forward suddenly, mouth close, eyes finding hers and locking in. "Is to know why you came to my presumably empty studio in the middle of the night before our wedding, leaving your boys and Audrey home alone. It's kind of weird, right?"

She should just kiss him goodnight now, go home, get some rest. She got what she came for — a small soothing of the lonely ache — but now she can't bear to leave him...

"Not weird," she says, slipping her hand into his again, needing the contact. "I was sitting in the dark too, Franco, thinking about how weddings are a time for celebration with family and friends… and it hit me that so many people I've cared for are gone… through choice, like my parents and Sarah and Steven and Hayden... like Lucky, Robin and Patrick... and now Laura. Or through violence, like Emily, Nikolas, Sabrina…," she breaks off, fighting back a rising sob.

He quickly gets down on the floor with her, wraps his arms around her and holds her close, a shelter from the crushing weight of so much loss. "I'm so sorry," he whispers, stroking her hair, kissing her forehead.

"But I have my boys," she says, nodding, the tears coming hard. "I didn't — I'd lost Jake — but I have him back. And I have Grams… and I know I have friends… I do. But most of all," she winds her arms around his neck and hangs on tight. "I have you. No matter how lonely I felt tonight, Franco, no matter how sorry for myself… I kept seeing your face, and it was like a light inside me. I'd remember a dumb joke you made, or a weird analogy, or something outrageous you did that had people frothing at the mouth… and it just…," she shakes her head, amazed all over again by the miraculous presence of this man in her life. "You make me so happy. You understand me. You help me be more than I ever thought I could be. So, yes, I snuck out in the middle of the night, left my kids and my grandmother, and came here because I needed to be surrounded by you... just for a little while."

She looks up at him, feels her face flushed and hot, lips trembling with emotion…

He looks back at her, wipes away her tears with his thumbs and shrugs. "You could have just called," he says, suppressing a smile.

She laughs out loud and burrows into his arms. "See?" she sniffles. "I get to marry my best friend."

#

"I miss coming here," she says, when she's quieted down and the tears have dried.

He leans back to gaze down at her, lifting a salacious brow. "I miss you coming here, too. I love when you come."

She elbows his ribs, but the words spark her blood. "You know what I mean. Our weekly rendezvous."

He smiles, nods as though she's proven his point. "I do know. Our trysts. Our _assignations_ …"

"Well… since we _are_ here…," she says, sliding her hand down his chest to his stomach.

"All alone…," he says, tone deepening.

"In the middle of the night…"

She opens the top button of his jeans, starts on the second…

"You grab the blanket," he says. "I'll grab the cushions."

#

This place has always set her free — the sharp odors of solvents and paints, the rough industrial setting, the sense of discovery, of creative possibilities…

Still, it feels vaguely illicit to be getting laid by a world-famous artist on the eve of her wedding…

They're so familiar with each other now, every taste, scent and sound… how, when and where to touch… or not... yet they're different here, with each other and with themselves. Stoked by shared memories — the significance of this cushion beneath her hips and that lightstand in the corner, and that streak of cerulean blue paint on the floor... even now the memory of how it got there makes her blush, and the way he made her swear not to clean it up...

All this surrounds her, stimulates her... and the silver moonlight glints on their naked bodies as his tongue and fingers work their magic…

She freezes, thighs shaking, head knocking back as the deep orgasm rolls through her… and then she melts, with small mewling sounds she never used to make. There are so many things she never used to do, until him. He leans up between her legs with that intense, hungry look she loves, and licks his lips, runs a hand over his goatee. He's about to move up her body… but she wants something different tonight. She rolls onto her stomach, climbs up to all fours and looks back over her shoulder to make sure he likes what he sees…

He makes a low animal sound, indicating that, _yes_ , he likes what he sees… _very much, thank you_ … and wraps his hands around her hips…

The floor is hard under her knees, but she's trembling with orgasmic aftershocks and feeling no pain. She wants it rough and fast tonight. She'll have pillow-topped mattresses and soft clean sheets, lunches to pack and hushed, stolen sex for years to come... but now she arches her back, spreads her legs wide and offers herself. He presses inside her steadily, none too gently, with a cock that's simply too big for her… but when she's this wet and this turned on, _goddamn_ if that isn't a wonderful thing. She pitches down at the invasion, shoulders and cheek hitting the floor, hands fisting in the blanket, and she takes it, pushes back, wailing like a feral cat in heat, feeling hotter and raunchier with each deep thrust…

But she doesn't care. Tomorrow, she'll be somebody's missus…

"Hey," she gasps into the scratchy blanket, breathless under the delicious pounding he's giving her. It's bizarre to raise this now, but they never talked about it, and it seems like something that needs deciding before they sign the papers…

"Are we hyphenating?"

His hips stutter for only a moment. "Are we… _what_?"

"Hyphenating. Webber hyphen Baldwin or Baldwin hyphen Webber," she manages between cries, hisses, and wet, slapping sounds. "Or keeping our names—"

"—Fuck if I care," he laughs, fingers digging deep into her hips. "You aren't my property. Keep your name."

"Okay," she grunts, mouth dry as cotton wool, body on fire as she continues to meet him thrust for powerful thrust..

He suddenly grabs her hair in one hand and pulls her upright against his chest. It's slick with sweat and she slides, but he palms her stomach and holds her still, long fingers slipping between her legs to her clit. She jerks at the touch, then laughs, sighs, purrs as he rubs in time to his rhythm. When he runs his wet, flat tongue over her throat from shoulder to jaw, she bucks like a colt…

"You feel so fucking good," he pants in her ear, hot and liquid, moving hard… and she shivers, drops her head to the side, giving him access to whatever the hell he might want access to. He's been so gentle with her lately, almost afraid of himself, but now he's rough and wild, like he's just been released from death row and is making up for lost time… and she's matching him with a mindless frenzy of her own…

She throws both hands around behind him and grabs his ass, kneads the curves, feels the rock and flex as he fucks her even faster. When she digs her nails in, he shudders and bites down on her neck with a strangled cry, and there it is — the moment of losing control that he both dreads and craves, and that she's grown to love above all else. It's too soon, but it tears through her, convulses her, and she comes hard under his ruthless fingers… and he follows within moments, slamming inside her once, twice... body going rigid… then he collapses with a sated groan, taking her down to the blanket with him.

He's gasping and laughing, tangled up with her, kissing wherever he can reach. "It'll be romantic tomorrow, I promise," he says when he catches his breath.

 _Whatever_ , she thinks, tries to speak, but nothing comes out.

"Wife," he murmurs, between kisses.

"Yes?" she manages.

"Just trying it out. Wife." He repeats it a few more times with different intonations, as though looking for a way it doesn't feel strange in his mouth. He chuckles and tightens his arms around her, brings his knees up and spoons her. "Wow. Wife."

She's spent, tingling and burning everywhere, yet a little thrill ripples through her at the word. She sighs deeply and snuggles back against him in the silver moonlight.

"Husband," she whispers… and it feels just right.

- _end_ -


End file.
